


Proof of Life

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Fiction, M/M, X-file
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-31
Updated: 2004-10-31
Packaged: 2018-11-20 04:58:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11329071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Bill Patterson's out. Mulder's got a job to do but the job that Scully and Skinner are faced with may be just as bad.





	Proof of Life

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Proof of Life

### Proof of Life

#### by Xact

  


TITLE: Proof of Life  
RATING: R (language, violence)   
**CLASSIFICATION: S A**  
DATE: October 2004  
AUTHOR: xact -   
KEYWORDS: M/Sk slash   
ARCHIVE: Basement only 

**SUMMARY:**  
Bill Patterson's out and Mulder's got a job to do. So do Skinner and Scully. 

MSk slash. But nothing graphic - sorry! 

* * *

Kersh won't stop talking and if they hadn't made the bastard a Deputy Director last week, I'd just hang up on him. Instead I try to make it clear that the ball's in my court, and I intend to run with it. "I'll find him." Mulder's new cellphone lies on the table, a silent witness to how long it takes the Bureau to update its personnel files. 

Mulder's staring at me and he already knows. 

Do I want them to send a team round to Mulder's apartment? Hell no! "No - that won't be necessary." A couple more "understoods" from me and I finally get him off the line. 

"Why's Kersh looking for me?" 

That's one thing about living with Mulder - you don't need a lot of preamble. "He was about to send a team round to your apartment." And though I try to keep my tone light, he obviously isn't buying it. 

"What's wrong, Walter?" 

Fuck. It's so easy to forget he's a psychologist as well as those other things he does. Walter? Walter, Walter, Walter. OK. Let's get on with it. "Bill Patterson escaped. Apparently he'd like to have a word with you." 

"He should have phoned. I'd have saved him the trouble." 

How dare he joke about this? I saw what Patterson did to those men, to Agent Nemhauser. I saw what chasing him did to Mulder. It scared me then, and we weren't even lovers. 

Mulder sobers up fast and I feel like a bastard for breeching his defenses. As if joking isn't just as good a response as tight-jawed Marine Corps hard ass indifference. Except I don't seem to be able to manage indifference right now. "We've got to get you to a safe house immediately." 

"No." 

"He had over a hundred drawings of you in his cell." 

"Shit. I'd better talk to Scully; she needs to get out of her apartment." 

"Scully? His obsession's with you, not her." 

"How long's he been missing?" 

"Four hours. But - " 

"I know." He shrugs, waving me back to silence, tapping his fingers against his thigh as he waits for her to respond to his call. "It's me," he says quickly, and his voice is soft and urgent and awfully hard to resist. "Patterson's out. Grab your weapon. Get out of your apartment." There's a pause, presumably to give her time to argue and then he starts up again. "Just do it. I'll meet you at Skinner's." 

He looks up at me, rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead before combing his hair back over his ears with his fingers. "I should get over there," he says suddenly, launching to his feet. 

"No. I'll send someone, it'll be quicker." And now it's my turn to be urgent and hard to resist as I pick up the phone and get a couple of agents dispatched to take her directly to the safe house. 

He calls Scully back with the new instructions and the circle is complete. He paces as he speaks, and I wonder where the energy is coming from. 

He didn't get home until 11, and he can only have made it back by then by speeding all the way from the airport. He was dog tired ten minutes ago, almost asleep, curled up in a tight little ball between me and the couch cushions watching the end of some predictable as hell horror movie. Faced with his very own night terror, Fox Mulder's suddenly wide-awake and buzzing. 

I think he may have drained the energy directly out of me. Which, if true, might be an X-File itself. Oh, hell. 

"Hey, are you OK?" 

Shouldn't I be asking him that? Shouldn't I be encouraging him to sit down and take a glass of water or a sip of brandy? Shouldn't I be saying soothing words about having everything under control? 

Under control? What fucking control? "Did you hear me, Mulder? His shrinks say he's obsessed with you. He's written his memoirs and the only cases mentioned are yours. The only agent mentioned is you. The drawings -" 

"I'm his gargoyle. He's using me to ward off evil spirits." 

"You knew about this?" Why am I not surprised? Why am I so fucking angry that he didn't tell me about it? 

"He sent me a birthday card. A drawing. Me - as... Well, you remember what the pictures were like." 

The ones John Mostow drew or the ones Fox Mulder drew? Sure I remember. 

"I didn't understand it then. I just thought it was a jibe. As soon as you mentioned the number of drawings, I knew what it meant." 

So he really didn't know then? He could have told me about the card though. Couldn't he? Just how many threatening letters does he get from people he's put away? 

"Talk to me, Skinner." 

Skinner? Is my reaction that bad then? Does he have to shock me back to life, back into remembering that I'm an FBI Assistant Director? OK - what's that prayer I've been saying? "We should get you to a safe house." 

"No - there's no need. But maybe you should go. And the Gun Men - he'll know about them. Scully's mom..." 

His voice trails off and one phrase stands out and screams murder in my ears. No need for him to go to a safe house. Other people - sure, but for him - no need. No need! "Mulder," I finally bark. He focuses on me; it's a penetrating gaze, as if he can see straight through to my soul. 

"Sorry," he says carefully, as if he's just remembered that he's talking to a hesitant and easily spooked witness, or perhaps some distraught family member, or possibly just an FBI AD who's temporarily lost his mind. "I'm not in danger. He wants me to play Clarice Starling to his Hannibal Lector. I'm his audience." 

"And his gargoyle?" 

Mulder smiles, perhaps in relief that I finally managed to supply him with a coherent response. "Gargoyle - warding off evil spirits. Maybe even an avenging angel. Either way, he thinks I'll save him." 

The strange thing is that right now, as I see the light shining in his eyes, I can see why Patterson might believe those things. 

* * *

Ten hours have passed since Kersh's phone call. Fourteen since Patterson escaped. Mulder got no sleep last night, and going by how tired he was when he got home, maybe not much the night before, and he's still racing. Doodling connections and lists on the pad in front of him while he talks on the phone to the psychiatrists who worked with Patterson; the marshals who are organizing the man hunt; the agents who Kersh has assigned to run the FBI side of the operation. 

Kersh glares at me as he brings the meeting to order. Too polite, too Bureau politically astute to throw an Assistant Director out. Too public a display of force. He isn't pleased, but everything I said is true. The Patterson case went through my office. One of my agents is the prime target. Another is already in a safe house. Just looking after my people, Kersh. 

But if Kersh is having a hard time keeping his anger in check with me then he's got no such inhibitions about screaming his displeasure at Mulder. Of course, he's got good reason. Agent Mulder has defied a direct order by coming to this meeting. Agent Mulder should be in a safe house awaiting orders. 

Mulder looks calmly up, sitting tall and straight shouldered in his shamelessly expensive suit ("gotta' look the part, babe") and suggests that, given he's surrounded by a team of agents in the middle of FBI Head Quarters, he's feeling pretty safe, "Thank you, sir." 

Before Kersh gets his breath back, Mulder's handing photocopies of a profile around the table. 

Johnson, a top name in the ISU these days, leaps to his feet. "I rather think the profile's my responsibility." 

Mulder scarcely acknowledges the man's presence. "I've already given this some thought. If you'd all turn to page three." 

I do as I'm told. Kersh surprises me by following suit. The other agents dutifully shift into action, turning the pages as requested. It's immaculately formatted, rigorously defended, precisely worded, impossible to argue with. A profile to match the Armani suit and the Italian silk tie. 

"It's unfortunate we didn't hear any of this a little earlier, Agent Mulder," growls Kersh. Which is fucking unfair. 

Mulder doesn't miss a beat. "If you'd care to look at Appendix A." 

It's a memo. Three months old. Fox Mulder to the chief psychiatrist at Patterson's hospital, copied to the current head of the FBI's profiling team and to Alvin Kersh, the man who had the right to stop Bill Patterson getting access to the notes he'd written back in his ISU days. 

"I'm sure the medical team at the hospital felt that writing would be therapeutic for Bill. Unfortunately they failed to recognize the depth of his obsession with the Mostow case." 

"Or with you," notes Johnson. Seizing his chance to say something. 

"Or with me. The issue now is how to make sure that Patterson goes after the right person." 

"You," insists Johnson. 

Shaking his head, Mulder sighs. "I'm not a target. I'm supposed to save him." 

"Two hundred sketches, Mulder. Of you. And we haven't even started looking at what's on his computer. Apart from Agent Nemhauser, you're the only Agent mentioned by name in his memoirs. And we all know what happened to Nemhauser." 

We do, and just in case anybody didn't know the name before today the photos of Nemhauser's slashed, dead, mutilated face are helping to decorate the table and the walls of the meeting room. 

"I'm his personal gargoyle. I'm supposed to protect him from the evil that's trying to possess his soul." 

Raised eyebrows and snorts of amusement from the other agents are cut short by my growl and Kersh's impatient, "Enough". 

I can feel my blood pressure rise but Mulder's sharp shake of the head stops me in my tracks. 

As if on cue the conference room phone rings, which means that it's got to be urgent - no one would put a call through to here mid-meeting if it weren't. Kersh picks it up and orders a five-minute timeout while he talks. 

"Don't," says Mulder, appearing next to me for the briefest instant, blocking my movement yet making it look accidental, as if he merely miscalculated the timing of his dash to join the coffee line and nearly caused a collision. "Not your jurisdiction," he whispers. 

He recognizes what I won't admit, that I'm close to exploding with righteous indignation at the way Kersh is treating him. Mulder's warning is about more than just jurisdiction. It's a reminder that arguing the point will not only raise eyebrows, but will confirm the knee-jerk reaction of those who would say that a psychopath's primary target should not also be a mover and shaker on the investigative team. 

When did he get to be the pragmatic one? 

Perhaps he always was. Maybe that's how he's managed to survive in places where so many others have died. 

When I look around again, Mulder's on the phone to Scully and she's clearly pissed as hell. The expression on Mulder's face speaks volumes. Despite the careful words he uses, it isn't hard to piece together the other half of the conversation. 

"I'm not coming to the safe house." 

"Your mom had to go. He's been researching you; he'll know about her. He'd have used her to draw you out." 

"Because he's been researching you." 

"I know you can look after yourself." 

"I'm not using you as bait." 

"I know you don't want my protection. That's just it, Scully. I can't use you as bait, because you won't let me protect you." 

"I can't. I just can't." 

He presses the button to stop the call. 

I ask the obvious question. "Bait?" 

There's a mist in his eyes and a shiver in his voice as he replies. "I can see it now, at this distance. I was difficult to control so he tried to manipulate me. He wants me to do my gargoyle duty and save his soul. But he needs to prove he can profile me, make me dance to his tunes. He thinks he can predict my behavior. And when it comes to how I'd respond if he took Scully, he's right." 

"You didn't tell her that." 

"Wouldn't matter if I did; she'd just be pissed with me for being predictable." A single snort of a laugh turns into a sigh as he permits himself to imagine the consequences. "She'll kill me when she gets out." 

I guess that's the voice of optimism talking. "What do you need?" 

"Something he's not expecting. Something to excite him enough that he makes a mistake." 

Kersh calls the meeting back to order and keeps his eyes on Mulder as he speaks. "It seems you were right, Agent Mulder. A search of the hospital library has uncovered a floor plan of Agent Scully's apartment hidden in one of the books. There are other sketches - a storyboard you might say. It looks as if he intended to take her." 

One day I'll ask Mulder how he knew all that in advance but for now I'll just be grateful that he did. I don't know if I'd be enough to keep him alive if he lost her like this. 

"What now?" asks Kersh. And his tone as he speaks to Mulder is almost respectful for once. 

"Preparation," announces Mulder, launching into a rapid explanation of what's required. "I think it'll be an abduction. He'll want to give me both the time and the reason to track him. In principle he could take anyone, just someone off the street. He knows from Agent Scully's move to the safe house that he's got my full attention and that I'll respond, whoever it is. We've got to find a way to use that. Directing Patterson away from innocent civilians is going to be the toughest task now." 

There's an uncomfortable flutter of noise around the table before Kersh says what everyone else is thinking. "We've got the ideal bait already, an experienced federal officer, and you've got her tucked away in a safe house. We let her out, wired and with backup." 

Mulder shakes his head; he's obviously been through this whole thing alone. I guess it should bother me that he couldn't share the load, but I won't condemn him for being who he is. The guilt of what he's done flutters in his eyes. "I spoiled his plan last night by moving her out of the picture. If we let her out, he'll get angry - he'll know he's being set up and he'll think we're being disrespectful, not taking him seriously. He'll kill her if he can, but he won't risk his freedom to do it. And he'll still take another victim as punishment." 

The quietly delivered expletives from around the table wouldn't bother me if I thought the angry words were directed at Patterson. Kersh makes it clear who he sees as the villain. "You're saying we're helpless because you chose to take away our best weapon?" 

"I'm saying you can't use Agent Scully as bait." 

"You're out of this, Agent. Not another word." 

And proving that he may not be quite so easy to read as Patterson likes to think, Mulder doesn't reply, he simply nods and sits back to silently study his notes. 

The excited chatter of frustration and anger gets a little louder until Kersh brings the meeting back to order. 

In his profile, Mulder has asserted that ambivalence is the X factor, and that if the chase becomes too predictable then Patterson will deliberately stir things up. More violence, more victims, more publicity, just more of everything until we let him have what he wants - a head to head with Mulder. 

"If Mulder's who Patterson wants - " Agent Harrison's voice tapers off and he waves his hands to suggest that it would be no great loss. 

I know the answer to this, Mulder's told me it often enough over the last few hours. "He wants Agent Mulder as an investigator, not as a victim. He can't move in on Mulder until he's proven that he can outsmart him." 

Johnson from Behavioral takes over, agreeing with me before adding another little twist. There is, he assures us, a homoerotic subtext in Patterson's drooling descriptions of Mulder taken from his memoirs, and from some of the more explicit poses he's added Mulder's face to. Therefore, he says, it would work best if the bait were a man. Preferably a superior officer, effectively mirroring his own old relationship to Mulder. Payback's a bitch and Johnson pays back Mulder in full for usurping his role when the team convened that morning. 

The angry tension at the table turns into something more akin to amusement and it's only my recollection of Mulder's sharp rebuke from earlier in the meeting that stops me launching into an assault. Instead I step up to the plate and suggest that my difficult subordinate, Fox Mulder, might have survived his more foolish errors and more outrageous derelictions of Bureau duty by becoming his boss's sexual partner. 

When the laughter dies down, Kersh agrees. 

There's no laughter from Mulder. A brief spasm of pain flashes across his face and then he doesn't look at me again. "It'll be ugly," he grumbles. 

"I'm sure the Assistant Director realizes that, Agent Mulder." 

I confirm Kersh's words. "I do." 

There's a brief pause before Kersh tries again. "Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder looks for a moment like he's going to throw up, then just as suddenly the mask is back in place. "If the Assistant Director is willing to do this, then I'm confident we can work out a scenario that'll guarantee we get Bill's attention." 

Within seconds we're into the small print of who, what, where and when. Surveillance details. Listening posts. Teams and timetables. Bugging devices. 

An hour later and it's all over bar me trying to get any kind of recognition from Mulder. It was the obvious thing to do and yet it's just as obvious that he hates what I've done. 

Even with the meeting finished and all the actions assigned, Mulder's mind's still racing and he's jotting down notes on the pad in front of him at lightning speed. There's something disturbing about Mulder on this kind of roll. Mulder knows it, too. The room's almost empty and he keeps looking around as if he's lost track of something or forgotten where he is. He glances up at me, but doesn't seem to know I'm there. 

What's wrong with this picture? 

Ah, of course. No Scully. 

Every theory, every idea, every guess requires a Scully test. Either a real one in which he actually says the words, or a virtual one in which he checks in with her, and merely rehearses his remarks and her reply in his head. I'm not a suitable substitute. I hope that's all that's wrong. 

"Agent Mulder, everyone's got their orders. There's nothing more for you to do here. We need to discuss the details of how we play this." 

He looks at me as if I've grown a second head, storm cloud eyes growing misty at my nerve. "Is that an order, sir?" 

"If necessary." 

He's still pissed with me. But his profile made the tactics clear. We need bait. As soon as he walks out of that door he's officially suspended from active duty until the "Patterson matter" is resolved. By refusing to go into protective custody, Mulder will be seen as rejecting the Bureau. The Bureau will now claim to have rejected him. 

All alone, Clarice? 

Except for the bait. 

Scully missed the job only because she wasn't there to argue her case. She was already in that safe house along with her mother, confidently anticipating the arrival of her partner. 

The game's different now. Ambivalence, a sexual challenger to Bill's dark fantasy. And who could be more ambivalent than an Assistant Director of the FBI who suspends one of his own men in the name of safety? Or friendship? Or control? Or love? Or contempt? 

"You shouldn't have done it," he states. The simple honesty comes as a welcome relief after the multi-claused sentences full of polysyllabic words that he's been using as armor all morning. "You don't understand what you're going to have to do." 

"You'd have preferred it if Kersh had volunteered?" 

I must have got the tone right because he snorts out a breath in an almost laugh. "You're not worried?" he finally asks. 

About Patterson or something else? I keep the reply indirect and light. "You think I'll have a problem pretending to be your lover?" 

He doesn't answer, which makes me wonder what the real question was. 

* * *

Bleak as winter rain as we drive back to my place, his eyes remain fixed on the street outside. Did I put the pain there? He doesn't think I meant that stuff about why I back him on the X-Files, does he? "This is just make-believe. You know that - right?" 

"Fuck off," he suggests casually, his tone so colorless it could easily be mistaken for a description of the weather. I'm not sure if he even intended to say it out loud. As bland and meaningless as an "I'm fine" and twice as honest. 

He's deep in thought and I realize that I was lucky to get any kind of reply. We drive on in silence. 

I don't even try to talk to him again until we're inside my apartment. "It was the only thing I could come up with." 

He smiles; it's hard and cold and not a look I thought I'd ever get from him. "Really. It was about the last thing anybody in that room was expecting you to come up with." 

"Including you?" 

"Especially me." 

I guess it's my turn to pay. "I'm sorry, Fox." 

Poor choice of words. The storm clouds darken at the "sorry", lightning strikes at the Fox. Fox is cheating, a low blow, a word for tender embraces, soft linen and warm nights curled up side by side. 

"Is this a long-standing fantasy of yours, sir?" 

Sir? That bastard Patterson - he's been out on the street for a day and he's already starting to rip us apart. "No." The opposite in fact. It was one of the things that stopped me from acting on my attraction to him sooner. But, "I won't lie to you. I have thought about it." 

He folds his arms across his chest and leans back against the bedroom door. Part challenge, part invitation, and one hundred percent mind over matter as I see his body become more insistent in its need for sleep even though his brain continues to demand answers. "I'm all ears," he says. 

"Before we got together, I always wondered how it would look. Would you see it as harassment if I approached you? Would Scully see it as some kind of coercion? If it came out - would other people think you'd sold yourself to protect the X-Files?" 

"And today?" 

"They laughed, Mulder. That's how dumb the idea was." 

"I didn't laugh." 

"I know." 

He takes a slow breath. "They didn't laugh because they thought it was dumb. They laughed because it made perfect sense." 

"They don't know you. They don't know us." 

There are a few seconds of silence before Mulder pushes himself upright. He licks his lips. "Unfortunately that asshole Johnson is right. It does play into Patterson's fantasies." 

"His memoirs?" 

He shakes his head, his eyes focused on something outside the room, suggesting some deeper, older connection. "He could never be content with just being my boss, you know? He wanted to be my master. How's that for _subtext_?" He smiles that humorless smile again but at least it's not directed at me this time. "And now he's got me lined up as an angel, so discovering our dirty little secret will drive him wild." 

* * *

When I wake up a couple of hours later, having reclaimed some of the sleep we missed the night before, Mulder's not only gone from the bed, there's not even a warm patch left behind. 

He turns briefly from the computer to acknowledge me as I walk into the spare bedroom that's now a den. He's typing with one hand and holding the phone with the other. "OK. Will do," he says, as he puts the handset down. 

He swivels the chair round to face me. "I'm going home." And my face must drop at his words because he moves quickly to correct them. "I'm going to my apartment. He needs to know how to find me and I've got some set-dressing to do. You should study these before you come over." He waves at the computer screen and sets a slideshow running. 

It takes me a couple of images before I understand what's happening. "No." 

"Bill's a very diligent man. Once a subject captures his imagination, he's very serious about research." 

"How did he get those pictures?" 

"Computer - they were arriving encrypted, he was unscrambling them only when he wanted to look at them. It's fetishist material rather than hardcore pornography, so they must have known he was in jail or something, otherwise why encrypt? He may have been paying for the service, or it may have been some kind of club. I've got our computer guys digging deeper and I'm trying to get an image copy of the hard drive shipped over to the Gunmen." 

"Mulder." Why am I more disoriented by this than he is? Because he's a profiler? Because he knows Bill Patterson? Because he's the fucking target of a serial killer and he doesn't seem to care? I can do better than this. I've got to. "This is his fantasy - about you?" 

"He's a complex man; he has complex obsessions. Superficially, he'll admit to being interested, albeit also disappointed, in the way I work, hence the memoirs. Go down a layer and you get the gargoyles - he may not even have realized that he was drawing me at first. He's not ashamed of those, even the ones that Johnson described as homoerotic. This stuff though, he doesn't like it, he's ashamed of liking it so much. That's why he hasn't tried adding my face to most of the images - why on his favorites you can't see the man's face at all." 

"What do you need me to do?" 

He waves at the screen as the picture of a slender naked man lying face down, spread-eagled and restrained by chains at ankles and wrists, changes to the image of the dark hair and bowed head of a kneeling man, his hands cuffed behind his back. 

"He's got the images, now we just have to let him see the face. Patterson thinks I'm suspended. He thinks you allowed it. All we've got to do is convince him that you did it for love. Ready to play?" 

"I won't need to act." 

He smiles at the idea, but shakes his head and I can't smile back. There's more to this than I'm seeing. What am I missing? 

I try to ask. "And you? Are you ready to play?" 

"Bill knows me. If I start playing, he'll know it. Whatever I do - you mustn't break cover. The only thing you're allowed to break is me." He keeps it light, delivers it as if he's telling me a joke, and maybe that's the best policy. The reality looks far too real. 

* * *

Mulder's apartment has already been "dressed" when I arrive. The place has been under surveillance since Kersh's call the night before and though there's been no sign of Patterson, Mulder's convinced that it was Bill's first stop after leaving the hospital - that he'd want to record every second of Mulder's reaction to losing Scully. 

Thankfully the Gunmen have given Mulder the means to check the place over and he's been setting up the Bureau equipment himself. 

He hands me a piece of paper. "I've given them sound in the living room and kitchen. I trashed the unit in the bedroom - they'll get too much static. Seven bugs of unknown origin all around the place, four of them are new, including the video camera/transmitter on the bookshelf. I rigged the bathroom - all anyone will hear in there is running water." 

Fucking hell shit. 

He waves a finger, determined not to give me too much time to think and mouths the word "Action!" as if the cameras are already rolling, which I guess they are, though I realize he's been careful to keep us out of the line of sight. 

I start with an easy truth. "You should have gone to the safe house." 

"You're in more danger than I am." 

Which might be true but it's hard to sift the performance from the reality and I really don't feel the threat to me. Shit. The more of this I can deliver from the heart, the better. That's what Mulder said. No script, he said. Just live it. Think Assistant Director. Think rogue agent. Think of the impossibility of mutual attraction. Think of unrequited love. Think of control and manipulation. Think of this as the cost of doing business. 

Think of Bill's fantasies. I look at the walls for inspiration. "I didn't know you were such a fan of Patterson's work." 

He nods, mouths a "good" and checks out the crime scene photos that now adorn the room to choose the right comeback. "I've always admired strength." 

"Is that what you want from me?" 

"I should be on that case and you know it." 

"My call." 

"Is that you or the FBI talking?" 

"Same thing." 

"I can stop him and you know it." 

"You're suspended. You don't get to choose." 

"Right. So what the fuck are you doing in my apartment?" 

"You need me." 

"Like hell." 

"Respect - I expect to hear it." 

"What - I'm supposed to call you sir?" 

"What is it you get off on, Mulder - the crime or the punishment?" 

He winces and falls into the rhythm, looking relieved that I'm now setting the pace. Maybe he wasn't really handling this any better than me. "He won't let you catch him." He adds the, "Sir," as an afterthought and probably as an insult. 

"You want to fight me? You'll lose. You always do." 

"Don't get in my way on this." 

"Fox! Enough. You'll do as you're told and you'll start right now." 

"Why the hell should I?" 

A single slap of my hand against his head, the noise reverberates and I'm lucky that he turned his face away because I caught him harder than I'd planned. He grimaces, and shakes his head - ordering me to continue, reminding me not to apologize. I try to get the rhythm again. "Because when this is over - you'll want your job back." 

"I'm not playing." 

"Your call. What's it to be - background checks and Kersh, or the X-Files and me?" 

"You bastard." Spoken so evenly, so lifelessly, it feels like a whisper, even though he makes sure that it's loud enough for the mikes. 

Almost screaming, "Try again, " I demand. 

"Yes, sir." 

"It's for your own good." 

* * *

Next Day - Hoover Building 

Mulder's voice has that quiet, angry edge that signals an explosive mix is brewing and we're only seconds from detonation. I can't even hear what he's saying, but I can see the warning lights flash in furious synchronization above his head. It's obvious that the others don't recognize the danger signs. 

He hasn't seen me yet, too busy with the half dozen agents crowding him into some kind of stand-off. My instincts are to intervene, but I'm fearful that I might make things worse. I force myself to listen in. 

"Aren't you a bit old to be his toy boy?" suggests Harrison. 

Mulder shrugs, "I'm just grateful he didn't insist on the ball gag and frogman flippers." 

They laugh. "Who'd have thought Skinner had it in him," adds Johnson. 

Mulder agrees. "Hollywood doesn't know what it's missing." 

Harrison rests his hand on Mulder's shoulder, all false camaraderie and backstabbing charm. "You weren't so bad yourself." 

Mulder stares down at the intruder's fingers. "Did Skinner give you permission to handle his things?" 

The laughter of the group is real. Mulder's smile never reaches his eyes. 

"Agents," I announce, and silence falls. The cluster of men parts like a tide, leaving Mulder marooned in the middle of the meeting room. 

"Sir," barks Harrison, leaping to attention. 

There's no smile on Mulder's lips now, fake or otherwise, and it's only too easy to see the pain that dances in his eyes. 

"May I remind you that nothing leaves this room; the recapture of Bill Patterson depends on it." 

"Sir," they confirm, not quite in time and with various degrees of firmness and enthusiasm. 

Mulder only nods. 

At the end of the meeting I corner him briefly and wish I could apologize for putting him in this position. 

No one will badger me over this game of double bluff. No one will make jokes about the casting couch or understanding now how he survives. He can laugh it off to their faces, another jibe to add to the ET and Spooky jokes - but it stings. I can see it does. 

"It is just pretence, you know." 

"Sure. See you later." 

He turns on his heel and walks out of the building, preserving the illusion that he remains persona non grata at the FBI. 

The next eight hours turn into days and I've got to keep reminding myself that he really is a first rate profiler in order to stay at my desk. 

His apartment is dark when I enter and I'm shocked when he doesn't move from the couch. "Mulder?" 

I walk towards him and it's a relief to see the gun in his hand. "Are you OK?" 

He shakes his head impatiently, holding himself at a twisted angle that has got to be painful. He mouths, "Camera - action," and flicks his head back to indicate something on the bookshelf. 

The camera? Oh, right, OK. We need to up the stakes, let Patterson see something to set the juices flowing. 

"Go," Mulder mouths carefully, shaking his hands to indicate the urgency. 

"Feeling sorry for yourself, Agent?" 

He breathes out in a relieved sigh and blinks. "No." 

"You've got to snap out of this. If you go to the safehouse, I'll talk to Kersh - make sure he keeps you in the loop." 

He blinks again, reassuring me that he's approving the tactics but egging me on to something more. He keeps his face averted from the camera. I don't have the same luxury - I'm right in its line of sight. OK. 

But it's all going to be all right because I'm warming to my case and it's only too easy to forget that this is a game and to allow the role to take over. "For God's sake, Mulder - why don't you just paint a target on your back and wait for him to shoot you?" 

"Bill won't hurt me." 

"Is that right?" 

And he flips, dead flat calm to explosive anger in an instant. "I'm a fucking profiler, Skinner!" 

"And I think what you need to remember that I'm an Assistant Director of the FBI." 

"Like I could forget," he snaps - snide and angry look in his eye. The floor turns to jell-o under my feet. 

Let it go. Remember the show. I love; he plays along. I control the bedroom; he buys himself a little freedom in his work. I push; he invites me back for more. "Time for a little reminder," I announce. "On your knees. Move it." 

He does as he's told and I wonder how much of the camera can pick up. I guess Mulder thinks our relative positions are good enough because he doesn't attempt to modify the action. His fingers drift to my zipper, and I bat his hand away. "Did I tell you that you can touch?" 

"Sir. I just need my gun back. I'll do anything." He blinks up at me, telling me that the choice to make the blackmail so explicit is deliberate, and that he's prepared for what surely's got to come next. 

My hand folds into a fist and I slam it into him, diverting the power at the last instant so whatever's left of the blow will be taken by his shoulder, not his jaw. His head ricochets back and he hits the floor with a heart-breaking thud and I hope to God that was acting because I think I'm about to throw up. 

He winks up at me from his position at my feet and I can't suppress the smile. Got to stay in the game here. Have to keep in character. "Bribery, Mulder? That's low - even for you. Get in that bedroom. Now!" 

Rolling slowly to his feet, he leads the way, stumbling heavily against the doorframe as I push him ahead of me, a punishment for walking too slowly. 

"Bathroom," he says quietly, as I barge my way through. 

We meet in relative seclusion and he switches on the shower to give us more. 

"Do you think he's buying it?" 

"God, I hope so. Our guys want to add their own cameras, and they're nagging about the sound feed from the bedroom and bathroom. I told them there's no way I can change them now. We can't afford any more suspicious activity in here." 

"How long before he -" 

"After your performance tonight? Soon. We're lucky it's weekend. He'll be less suspicious of you hanging around me." 

"About my performance." 

"Yes," he supplies as reassuring a smile as he can muster, "You've still got a punch." 

He cuts off my attempt to apologize by suggesting we quickly use the bathroom facilities and get back to work. "Got to keep Bill entertained." 

The tape's already lined up when we reach the bedroom. Mulder points at the spread-eagled man on the cover of the video and the matching printout from Patterson's special collection. These are the ones that don't show Mulder's face, Mulder says that's what makes them so special. 

"Face down," I order. "You know what I want. You know what you need. Or do I have to tie you down?" 

"I'll keep still." 

"What?" 

"I'll keep still, sir." 

"Now! I don't have all day." 

He smiles up at me, lying back on the pillows, holds out his arms to invite me into bed, even as he hits the play button on the remote. 

The tape has sound but no voices. "The version they use for dubbing," Mulder explains in a whisper, turning the volume up a little louder so the smack of flesh on flesh reverberates around the room. He yelps at the vital moments and his eyebrows urge me to join in. 

"You'll take it because you have to," I command. 

He forces an undeniably fake but passable grin and his bare toes wander up along my thigh, trying to reassure me. He whimpers, lets out a painful sounding squawk and pulls me down so my face is next to his. "You've watched too much porn," he murmurs. 

I move in to kiss him but he pulls away. I reach down to touch him, but he's not merely uninterested, he's indifferent to my contact. Which I guess, coming from a man normally so responsive, is a reminder that this performance tonight is strictly professional and that any thrills are strictly for public consumption. 

* * *

I hated that I had to leave him in bed after we... 

After we didn't actually do anything at all. After we watched some videos, joining in with the artificially blissful chorus of sound at the key moments - trying to make it sound real for Bill's benefit. Mulder's toes dancing lightly against my inner thigh as he attempted to make it feel like more of a game and less of a nightmare. But the only thing I can recall with any clarity is that when I moved to kiss him, he pulled away. When I reached out and touched him, the message from his body was clear as daylight. His complete absence of arousal a damning indictment of my nascent excitement. 

I was home by midnight and shocked by the emptiness of the bed. 

But illusion is everything. I'm the FBI boss who holds Mulder's career and maybe even some part of him in my self-centered, arrogant hands. I'm the kind of bastard who can hit a man who's already on his knees. 

I'm the insensitive brute who can go into the office on a Saturday morning knowing that his lover is in the sights of a psychopath. 

The agents who trail me make a reasonable show of staying well back. But if I can see them, surely Bill Patterson can see them, too? 

Mulder says that it won't matter. That Bill's blind. That all who love are blind. 

They peel away from me as soon as we reach Mulder's block. They won't return until I tell them I'm leaving. 

His apartment is dark when I enter, the curtains drawn even though it's the middle of the day, and Mulder lies unmoving on the couch. I guess I know which scenario we're going to play out first. 

I walk towards him. "Get up, Mulder." 

He doesn't stir and suddenly I know that it's not a game. 

The faster I try to move the more my feet drag against the carpet. It's an eternity before I drop to my knees at his side. I only just remember to howl, "Officer down," as I go for my gun. 

Fuck. How could I have been so stupid? The next few seconds vanish in the haze of sudden pain and wild confusion. "Officer down. Shots fired." Well, one shot at least and not from my weapon and it's two officers who are down now. Aw, shit. This hurts. 

Looming over me, Bill Patterson smiles, bares teeth that should be fangs. A gun in each hand focused on Mulder's unmoving body. "If you're calling to those two agents in the block across the street. Forget it. They won't be rescuing anyone." 

"Bastard." The blood from the hole in my shoulder paints the floor red. "What's wrong with him?" 

"You!" he snaps, amused. "You know I almost bought into your little charade." 

There's a gleam in his eye that means something and I wish Mulder were here to explain it. Damn it, I just wish Mulder were here at all. He's scarcely moved since I came into the room - despite the fizz of Patterson's silenced gun, despite my scream when the bullet hit, despite my current attempts at conversation with a mad man. Damn it, Mulder. Wake up and tell me what the hell I'm supposed to do now. 

I've got to say something. Keep him talking. That's ABC. "Charade?" 

"You took one look at him laid out on that couch and forgot thirty years of training - military, Bureau - you didn't even draw your weapon." 

"What did you do to him?" 

"I think the real question is what did he do to you? To me?" His eyes dance, wild and insane, territorial as they roam across Mulder's body, gloating as they study me. 

What the hell 's that supposed to mean? 

He shakes his head, as if he's the teacher and I'm the disappointing student. "Fox - gets under your skin, doesn't he? Makes you want to believe? Pushes buttons? That first night - he pushed mine. At first I was actually shocked that he let you get away with it." 

There's a "but" coming and even through the pain in my shoulder I can tell it's going to hurt. 

He bounces the gun in his hand, as if weighing it, before pointing it at Mulder's head. "Then I realized that you were the one being played. You didn't think you could actually control him did you?" 

Mulder didn't prepare me for this. Nothing prepared me for this. I open my mouth, but the words of threat and challenge that I want to deliver sound empty, even to me. "Give yourself up, Bill. You won't get out of here alive." 

His fingers dance lightly along the trigger, the threat implicit as he smiles at Mulder's silent form. "You don't understand, even now. I'm not talking about controlling him with your fists and a belt - I'm talking about controlling him! He told you that he was going to make you into a target, didn't he - bait?" 

I nod - involuntarily - defenses dripping away as surely as my blood. 

"He was bluffing." He smiles down at Mulder, fondly, predatorily. "He laid on a cabaret - just for me. All these years and he still needs me." 

Like hell. Got to focus. "What have you done to him?" 

"Isn't it obvious? Survey the crime scene, Assistant Director. You really should have known as soon as you walked through that door." 

Not my finest hour. Certainly not my finest five seconds, which I guess is how long it took me to cover the distance from door to couch, to kneel on the floor and then to remember to act like an FBI agent. The gun. I nudge it under the couch with my foot, maybe I can use it later, though somehow it doesn't seem likely 

"He's got some very bad habits you know. Like going for a run then drinking cartons of juice he finds in the refrigerator." 

It's his fucking kitchen! He had a team of FBI agents standing guard over his damned apartment! A couple of men who would have been monitoring him even as he ran around the block. Jesus, the man's spooky but he's not that kind of paranoid. But we knew Patterson was cunning, should have known he could get in here again. We should have known he might pull off something like this. Coulda' woulda' shoulda' echo through my head, repeat in an endless loop of blame. 

Great - I've been shot. I'm losing blood, floating towards lightheaded dementia and now I'm going manic just listening to this bastard talk. I state the obvious, just to keep him talking. If he's talking, we're still alive. Though how long I've got before I bleed out I'm not quite sure. The relief team for the agents on surveillance won't arrive until 4, and that's almost three hours away. "You drugged him?" 

"Bravo. He was already 'asleep' when I came in. Then I gave him a little something extra." He waves a gun-filled hand at the syringe on the coffee table. "I left that in plain sight as a little clue for you. I didn't think you'd spot it." He laughs. "How long did he let you play at being his boss for, Skinner? Idle curiosity. I'd just like to exchange notes." 

"I've been his AD for seven years." 

"That's not what I asked. The charade, Skinner. Tell me about how he uses your love for him to get his own way with those ridiculous cases of his." 

We're hours away from rescue and I'm fading fast. I know I've got to try to keep Patterson talking but I don't think I've got the concentration to keep it up for long. And if we do get out of here I'm going to have to destroy this tape before anyone hears it. No one needs to hear Walter Sergei Skinner cry over one of his men, even if it is Fox Mulder. 

Patterson smiles, proud of his profiling skills. "I was going to take you - just to piss him off - punish him for trying to play me. But then I realized that there's no point. He knows that I could." 

The pieces slip into place like a noose around my neck. I wonder if Mulder actually had feared that Patterson would kidnap me - and that was why he made me play those games of torment rather than those of love? Over-stimulation, that's what he called it when he briefed me on our roles. A guarantee that Patterson would be too fascinated to look away. 

A certainty that Bill would be too excited to play around and would simply leap in pursuit of the real deal and ignore the bait. 

Mulder doesn't move, doesn't make a sound beyond a couple of slightly wheezing breaths. 

Which focuses my thoughts. "What did you give him?" 

"Haldol, sleeping pills, valium - a bit of a cocktail. But nothing that you wouldn't find in any good psychiatric ward. He'll be waking up soon. I've been very careful with the dose." 

"What are you going to do?" 

He laughs - cold, sharp, humorless. "I'm going to take him away from all this. He needs reprogramming - I've become quite an expert, you know. Which drugs to use, which behaviors to reward, which punishments to adopt for non-compliance." 

"He won't just walk out of here." 

"I was hoping to get your help in carrying him out, but I guess I miscalculated." He waves a gun at my shoulder and then at the puddle of red on the floor. "Let's just hope he wakes up soon. I'd hate for him to miss you." 

"He won't go. Even if you put a gun to his head." 

"He will - to save your life. He might not think much of you as a man, but he won't want to see you die." 

* * *

When I wake up, it's to white walls, electronic beeps and the sickly antiseptic smell of hospital. Oh God. "Mulder!" 

Scully stares down at me. "He wasn't there." 

"Patterson." 

She nods at the inevitability. "Do you have any idea where he took him?" 

"What time is it?" 

"It's 8 o'clock. The EMTs found you at 2." 

"How?" 

"Patterson called it in on Mulder's cell phone. The phone's switched off now. The agents on surveillance are in here recovering. They were drugged. Gassed first through the air-conditioning vent we think. He left them bound and gagged." 

"What's happening?" 

"Manhunt." 

I do the calculation. "They had at least an hour's start. They could be anywhere." 

"Do you know what kind of vehicle he was using?" 

"No. I need to get - " I start to rise, the room spins, and I collapse back into the pillows again. 

"You lost a lot of blood. They were only just in time. What happened? Is Mulder injured?" 

Fuck. This hurts. Morphine might work on my shoulder but it's not even taking the edge off Scully's cold expression and toneless voice and it's not even blurring the thoughts of Mulder in the arms of that mad man. 

"Dr Scully!" I look up to see an angry looking nurse growling at Scully as the alarms on the monitors around me start to flip out. "I told you that he needed to stay calm." 

"I need to talk to him," Scully insists, and I swear her next act will be to draw her gun if the nurse doesn't back off. 

In any case. "I need to talk with Agent Scully." 

The nurse glowers, first at Scully, then at me. "Five minutes. Then you need to get some rest. The sooner you do, the sooner you'll be able to talk as much as you like. 

Scully's tightly drawn lips don't relax much even after the nurse leaves. I let her partner get taken. I was the bait and Mulder got hooked. I know why you're angry with me, Scully. I'm angry, too. 

I tell her as much as I can. She tells me she's already listened to the surveillance tapes but that there was nothing from today. Patterson had seen to that. If there's anything I can recall, they need it. 

"You know, those tapes, the way I treated Mulder, the way he responded - we were acting. You know that." 

She nods and maybe her head accepts my words, but I wonder if her heart can hear them at all. 

* * *

The nurse was right; I needed to sleep. I needed to get some kind of control over my body before I could start clearing my head. Scully shot Mulder through the shoulder and the idea of comparing scars makes my thoughts wander again. 

No more morphine. The doctor gives me that, "Yeah right, macho man," look before arranging a hook-up and telling me that all I've got to do to make it go away is push the button. 

Mulder, where are you? 

Talk to me Mulder. Of course, he doesn't. X-Files are strictly his prerogative. And suddenly I'm feeling very tired and hurting bad. A little push on the morphine pump just to take the edge off and I'm drifting under. 

Just a couple of hours to sleep it off. 

When I wake up again, the pain's starting to subside and my brain's coming back into working order. 

I'm rerunning everything that Mulder said, everything that Patterson said, looking for the magic words. But the words I keep coming back to aren't theirs, they're mine. "He won't go. Even if you put a gun to his head." Of course, Patterson didn't need to put a gun to his head. He walked because Patterson promised to save me if he played along. 

From Mulder's perspective there are no more deals to be done. Patterson's got nothing to offer him. It'll only be a matter of time before that stubborn streak of his kills him. But Bill wants to be saved and Mulder's his savior. He's the man who can ward off evil. 

Which will give Mulder some time. 

"Nurse! Nurse!" She arrives at the door accompanied by two agents who I didn't even know were posted there. Though I suppose I should have guessed. "Ah, OK, nurse. I'd like to talk to my colleagues here." 

The nurse leaves, looking disgusted. The younger agent hangs back while the other one makes a hesitant approach. "Get Agent Scully and Agent Johnson down here. Now," I add, because he doesn't move fast enough for my liking. 

Scully and Johnson arrive and Johnson looks at me like I've sprouted wings and a tail. No wonder Mulder thinks he's an asshole. The man obviously can't bear to have anyone come up with an idea without his prior approval. 

Johnson makes it sound like the opening lines in a lecture. "Agent Mulder is an experienced enough profiler to know that all he can do right now is remain compliant, stall for time so we can find them, or wait for an opportunity to free himself." 

Fuck that. "Mulder isn't capable of remaining compliant." 

"Then we might as well start looking for a ..." His voice trails off and I'm not sure whether it was the anger in Scully's eyes or the madness in mine that stopped him from referring to Mulder as a corpse. 

Scully lets Johnson off the hook by questioning me herself. "What do you think he'll do, sir?" 

"He'll insist on proof of life," and my voice catches as I remember Mulder making Russell Crowe and men in leather skirts jokes as we watched that movie. "He'll want to talk to me." 

"Then we'd better get the technicians to set up in here." Scully's already starting to move for the phone and I've got to stop her, because there's more to be said. 

"We'll need a hostage negotiator." 

"Of course," agrees Scully. 

"Patterson will try to make me talk to Mulder. But we've got to insist on proof of life, too. We'll need somebody." Aw fuck, I hate this, but what else can I do? Just keep going. If I can't say it now, what hope do I have of sticking to it later? Deep breath. "Somebody will need to stop me replying - unless he puts Mulder on the line. " 

"To stop you," she says, her voice losing that crisp professionalism. 

Johnson, the asshole, states the obvious. "He'll get angry. He'll take it out on Mulder." 

"He wants Mulder to drive the evil away. He can't do that if Mulder's dead." 

"So he'll kill Mulder and turn the gun on himself afterwards." 

Jesus! Does the man always say the first thing that comes into his head! It's only the spinning walls of the room that stop me from getting out of this bed and ramming his teeth down his throat. 

Fuck. I try to force myself to remember how this works. This is after all why I asked for Johnson. Johnson thinks I'm a wounded Assistant Director with too much morphine in his system, he doesn't know I'm the grieving partner. But he could be a little less insensitive around Scully. But still, that's exactly the reason why Johnson's here. I just wish I could feel grateful. 

Scully rocks onto her heels then stiffens. "If I understand correctly, sir. You think that nothing we can do will push Patterson over the edge." 

"Compared to Mulder, we're mosquito bites. Mulder will tell me how to find him, if we can force Patterson to let him speak." 

"Sir," grumbles Johnson, apparently oblivious to the fact he's already lost the battle. "Patterson has been planning this for months. He's not going to let Mulder interfere with his fantasy." 

"Mulder's been interfering with the fantasy since the moment he sent Agent Scully to the safe house and stayed out himself. He's forced Patterson to change plans over and over again." The rest of the material in Patterson's cell has already proven that theory. She should have been taken that first night. She was supposed to have been Patterson's pawn in this game. 

Scully nods, shaking herself back into action. "We'd better get ready for the call." 

Yeah, we had. And while it can't come too soon, I'm only too aware that I may never be ready for what I'm going to have to do when the phone rings. 

* * *

It's more than two days since I was shot and I'm still in a hospital bed suffering from what the doctor cheerfully describes as opportunist infections that took their chance to attack while I was out cold. 

Blood's an amazing thing. Take a pint and no one's the wiser. Take ten and you're empty. Somewhere in between you totter and I was brought in tottering. Replenishing the lost blood took only hours but the weakness has left me feeling drained and empty. Not that that's the only reason to feel that way. 

The hospital authorities didn't like the invasion by the FBI and I guess I can't blame them for that. All those warning notices advising visitors to switch off cell phones and I bring in a bunch of agents bristling with high tech. The clinic they moved me to is better equipped to deal with it, or perhaps just better paid. Rank has its privileges. 

With the Gunmen's help we've made the trail easy to follow. Patterson has been working hard to update his skills over the last three years and we're trying to be ready for whatever curve ball he throws. Because after three days it has got to be a curve ball that's coming or else he'd have called sooner. 

At least, that's the story I gave to Deputy Director Kersh. Bastard wants to shut down "this wing of the operation" as he calls it, and focus on "reliable investigative methods that have always served the Bureau well". If it wasn't for my AD rank he'd have pulled the plug already. 

How the hell did Mulder manage to piss Kersh off so badly? The man hardly knew him. Maybe that's it. To know him is to love him. There's a certain irony in the fact that I'm engaged in a war with Mulder's old boss. Somehow I doubt that Mulder'll ever have to fend off Kersh's attentions. 

Come on Mulder. I don't know how much longer I can stand this. I'm going insane here. 

* * *

The bastard's kept me waiting for another 24 hours and yet I'm still sure that I'm only waiting. 

Scully's reading a forensics journal and looking at her watch and wondering if she bet on the wrong horse by staying with me rather than joining the manhunt outside. Johnson's doing that "I told you so" thing without ever saying a word. 

The phone squawks to life and I want to leap out of bed and howl. 

Johnson answers it. The asshole has his script to hand in case this time it's the real deal. 

"I'd like to speak with Walter Skinner." 

It's Patterson, I mouth, but Johnson sticks to the script. "Who is this?" 

"He knows who it is. Just get him on the damned line." 

"We need to talk to Fox Mulder." 

"He's fine. He's just waiting to hear his master's voice." 

"Not until we hear from Mulder." 

There's a lot of crashing around and then a heavy thump of a sound and a scream and I know what Bill Patterson is doing and - just give me the line, damn it, and let me stop this for God's sake! 

"Ten seconds and counting, Skinner. Pick up the phone before your boy starts to lose some body parts. Ten, nine, eight..." 

No. No. No. Scully reaches out and holds my hand, and if I've fucked this up, it won't just be Mulder who dies. Johnson's almost screaming now, pleading with him to stop and think. 

"Seven, and then six and five - don't you want him, to stay alive." Bill's voice fades out into a cackle of laughter. 

"Four, three, die young and leave a good-looking corpse. Two, one. Sorry, Mulder. Looks like he doesn't love you after all." There's the briefest of pauses and then the thunder of a bullet rips my soul apart. 

* * *

We traced his call and it led us back to an international dialing service in France. Not that Bill's in France of course. Could be anywhere, agrees Frohike, confirming the worst news possible from the Bureau's technicians. 

I don't think I can take another call like the last one. I don't think Scully can either. The other possibility, that there may never be another call is one that I daren't even contemplate. It cannot end like this. 

It's six agonizing hours before Patterson calls again. Six hours trying to imagine just how many new skills Bill picked up on that psych unit. 

"I'd like to speak with Walter Skinner." 

Johnson, the asshole, sticks to the script. "Who is this?" 

"Just get him on the damned line." 

"Not until we've spoken to Mulder." 

The scream echoes around the room and it's funny but everyone recognizes Mulder's voice from that one desperate howl of pain. "Does that answer your question? He's alive. For now. And still mostly in one piece. If Skinner wants to keep him that way he'll start talking." 

"We still need to hear from Agent Mulder. You could just be playing us recordings. We need to talk to him." 

Another scream and a couple of near words that could have been fuck and bastard. Oh God, Mulder, you are alive. And I can only assume that Patterson's gagged him again because there's only a sickening silence now. "Is it worth it, Skinner? Just talk to him. He needs something to cheer him up. He thinks you don't care about him anymore. Did you always throw away your broken toys?" 

"Fuck you, Patterson." And it takes me a few seconds to realize that it's not me who snatched the telephone from Johnson's limp fingers, it's Dana Scully. "Mulder's never going to play ball with you. Just let him go." 

"Ah, the lovely Agent Scully. How nice of you to join us. Are you enjoying the show?" 

"Either he talks to Skinner or the show's over. You've got ten seconds to put him on the line before I hang up." 

Jesus! 

If I wasn't already lying down, I'd have fallen down by now. Johnson shrugs, admitting he's so far out of his league he's got no advice on what happens next. Everyone else is too stunned to move. 

Even Scully is shaking as she launches into her countdown, as if even she can't believe what she's set in motion. 

Another scream. 

"Six. We need him, here, now, on the line. This is not negotiable." 

The fuck it isn't. Whatever he wants. He can have it. 

"Five. Come on, Patterson. Now. Four." 

"Scully, it's me. Is Wally really there?" 

"Mulder?" 

Another scream. Of course it was Mulder. I grab the phone from her hand. "Let me talk to him, you bastard." 

"Ah, at last. Mr. Skinner. How nice of you to finally join us. I guess it took Agent Scully to show you the way. I can't imagine what he sees in you. What do you think? Is it the lessons or the punishment?" 

"He'll never be yours, Patterson." 

"He already is." Another shot. Another scream. The line goes dead. And so do I. 

Scully rushes forward to pull me up from where I fall on the floor and two other agents join her mission an instant later. 

Fuck this. "Get this crap off me." I motion to the IV's and wires that I dragged with me from the bed. 

Scully's voice is crisp and precise. "Clear the room. Two minutes." She's already pressed the button for a nurse and I know if one doesn't show up fast then Scully will do the job herself. 

When it's done in ninety seconds, I guess the message is clear. Even the medical staff will be glad to see the back of us. 

"I want a team available as soon as we get to Martha's Vineyard. They're to keep their heads down. Absolute discretion. I don't want him spooked. Make sure all flights and ferries are being monitored. Boat rentals. We've got to keep him there." 

"Sir?" says Johnson, waving a hand as if he's expecting something more. 

Stupid asshole. "Do you seriously think that Agent Mulder has ever called me Wally?" 

* * *

"May I ask you a question?" 

I look at Scully, and see only the clouds drifting past the airplane window. I'm not sure if I've got any secrets left. Not from her. I nod. 

"Why the Vineyard? How do you know?" 

"He asked me what I saw myself doing, once I retire." She looks surprised but the date's not really that far off. "I told him I once had this dumb idea about running some kind of beach bar, misspending my dotage the way I didn't misspend my youth." 

"And the island?" 

"His retirement. He made a joke about Chez Wally's not really being a very Vineyard sort of name." 

She nods, looks away, not angry but chagrined maybe? I guess that's not a side of himself he ever showed to her. She looks back at me, controlled, business-like. "I'm concerned by how Patterson got him to the island." 

I nod for her to go ahead, wondering if her concerns are the same as mine. 

"He could have been drugged, left in the car trunk for the crossing. Or Patterson could have hired a boat." 

"It's clear that he's been preparing for this. The arrangements he'd made for the phone are sophisticated. The bugs he used at Mulder's apartment. The drugs. It's very possible he arranged a private boat." 

"With a captain." 

"Or without. He was a keen sailor." 

Not what Scully wanted to hear. Her eyes brighten again. "They'd still need a car." 

They would. Scully heads for the phone to amend the instructions on the computer search and to see how the hunt for travelers and renters is going. 

* * *

What happens next is straightforward police work. A list of rentals from the weekend. A list of drivers of approximately the right age. A list of credit card details for a boat taken out in the right time band. Lightning strikes and what do we have - a person whose purchases only occurred on the internet until a week ago. 

Magic takes a little longer, and a lot more knocking on doors. 

Until finally we have a car and an address. 

Electronic surveillance set up their systems in a neighbor's garage. 

Two people inside according to the infrared, says the video operator. Two voices, says the sound technician. Would you like to listen? Damned stupid questions people ask. 

Scully sidles over to me. "How are you doing?" Damned stupid questions people ask. "Your shoulder," she adds, in reply to my lack of response. 

"Fine." Actually I'm numb from the toes up and the longer I can keep it that way the better. "Are the tactical unit in place?" 

The leader of the Hostage Rescue Team looks at me, then looks at the hostage negotiator sitting redundant on the desk. "You're not even going to try to talk them out?" 

Damned stupid questions. 

One of them can't come out and the other one won't. I look at Johnson and he cringes. Fine, I'll do it myself. "His life's over as soon as he leaves that house. Most likely scenario - suicide by cop. Your job is to make sure he doesn't take anyone with him. We absolutely cannot let him know we're here. That's why Mulder was so cautious on the phone. He couldn't hint to Patterson that we'd be coming." 

The HRT boss seems to lack the usual gung-ho spirit. "He'll have to leave the house some time. We could just wait it out." 

I do not want to hear this. Mulder wouldn't care about their so-called professional advice. His instincts would say the word and he would run with it. But I'm not Fox Mulder. And I believe in happy endings and tooth fairies and Santa Claus and - fuck me, I want so badly to believe that everyone else on this job is right and I'm wrong. 

OK. "We've got good eyes and ears." I wave at the jumble of wires, monitors and speakers. "So long as we've got that, we can hold. I expect instant preparedness. Any change in mood. Any equipment failure. Any opportunity. And we go in. You get a clear shot on him and you take him out. Understood?" 

"Understood, sir." Looking relieved, the team leader turns away to start briefing his crew. 

The monitors show one man sitting and another man pacing. I guess Mulder's tied to the chair. What's hard to judge on the infrared is whether Patterson actually touches Mulder on those slow sweeps of the room or whether he merely walks past him, temporarily causing a blurring of the two images. 

"I'm waiting." And if there's one thing I've got to hand to Patterson it's this - the bastard's patient. He's got to have said variations on that one phrase at least thirty times since we got the listening equipment set up without ever actually repeating himself. 

"Fuck off," supplies Mulder. Who must be extremely tired or else his pride would have stopped him from using the same reply to every Patterson remark. 

The sound technician puts his hand over his mouth suppressing the inappropriate grin that forms briefly on his features after every repetition. OK - maybe that's not Mulder's tiredness that's talking, maybe it's a Mulder tactic. Maybe it's a bit of both. 

It's a couple of hours before there's much change, a prolonged silence falls. Patterson continues his pacing, albeit at a slower rate. 

It's Mulder's voice that breaks the stand-off. "Bill. You need to get some rest. This is killing you." Everybody snaps to attention in the room. 

"Still holding. Ready - on my word," says the HRT boss, talking into his headset. 

"Bill. I need a drink." 

"You don't deserve one." 

"I know I don't. But this isn't about deserving - this is about me getting what I need." 

"You've got to earn it." 

"I can't. You're just going to have to give it to me." 

"No." 

"Jesus, Bill. You've spent five fucking days telling me this is about me getting what I need. Well, I need a fucking drink." 

"You don't know what you need." 

"Do it, Bill. For me. I know you want to." 

"You wouldn't do this to Skinner. You wouldn't expect him to put up with demands." 

"Walter would never put me in a position where I had to make demands." 

"I heard him! I saw him!" 

"You heard a lie that you wanted to believe." Mulder waits for a few seconds and pushes Bill's buttons a little harder. A sharply aggressive edge to his tone now. "For fuck's sake, this is getting us nowhere. Just get me the damned drink!" 

The figure we identified as Patterson storms towards Mulder, suddenly freezing to a halt right in front of him, There's a pause and some kind of jerky movement as if Bill jumps, then a sharp scream followed by the sound of fists meeting flesh and a choked, coughing sound from Mulder that takes a few seconds to subside. 

"Fucking clever, Bill. Feel better, now? You'll have to re-bandage it. How about some Tylenol to go with that drink!" 

Patterson snorts out an exasperated gasp, leaves the room, and starts making his way towards the kitchen. 

"Go, go, go," calls the team leader. 

Gas canisters fly through every window and big guys in breathing gear follow them in. 

Seconds later and they've got Mulder wrapped in a kevlar blanket and they're hauling him out through the living room window and he's still tied to that damned chair. I run forward to greet him and the world goes black. 

* * *

Another fucking hospital room. 

"My hero!" says a wonderfully familiar voice from my side. There's a pause and my mind goes blank and my breathing fails. "Want a sip?" he adds at last. 

I can't quite get my eyes to focus yet, but I can feel the cool water against my lips where he holds the glass and there are wet streaks on my cheeks that I'd rather not acknowledge right now. I take a drink and ignore the rest. 

"Shhh," he says, gently dabbing the unwanted tears from my face. 

I hope to God that he's the only person in here. 

"It's OK, just you and me. You're going to be fine." 

"And you?" 

"I'm just waiting to be discharged and I've already gone ten rounds with Scully over whether I'm the bigger idiot for sending her to the safe house or she's the bigger idiot for letting you lead this safari." 

"Did he - " 

"He shot me in the foot," he holds up his hand as a stop sign against the obvious response, "and, before you start, believe me that joke's already been done." 

"You screamed." 

"I'll be fine in a few weeks. He stood on the gunshot wound - repeatedly. Very simple. Terribly unimaginative." 

"Did you tell him that?" 

"Of course." 

"Christ, Mulder, he could have." 

"Could have. Didn't." 

"Patterson?" 

"He'd been pacing round that room non-stop for 24 hours when you arrived. I didn't let him sleep. He wasn't really with it." 

"You didn't let him he sleep?" 

He shrugs as if it's the most natural thing in the world that the hostage was simultaneously torturing his jailor even as his jailor tortured him. "I'm no fun drugged or hung-over so he couldn't make me sleep. When the agents went in through the back door, the only weapon Bill was carrying was a box of Tylenol. He's on his way back to the hospital." 

"Did he?" I don't have the nerve to ask the question out loud. 

But the great thing about Mulder is he doesn't need things spelled out. "No - he never got that far. He asked me about you. I told him the truth. He spent five days waiting for me to admit that he'd saved me from you." 

"You knew he was going to take you, didn't you?" 

"I hoped." He raises a hand to block my objections. "Once you volunteered to act as bait I didn't have a choice." 

Touche. I removed his freedom of movement by offering myself as a target. I can hardly complain that he made the same decision. One more thing. "The phone calls. I didn't..." 

"You were perfect." 

"Johnson thought you'd play nice with Patterson." 

"Johnson's an asshole." He strokes his fingers across my shoulder. "Thanks for finding me, Wally." 

He's laughing as he says it. The sound's a rare and precious thing that I can store up to replay at will on cold and lonely nights, though of course I'd never admit that to him. "You know, _Fox_ \- I will be getting out of here." 

**THE END**   
  

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